


bring me java, bring me joy

by schlicky



Series: coffee!au [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-11
Updated: 2010-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schlicky/pseuds/schlicky





	bring me java, bring me joy

Practice had been fucking brutal. Brad is sore in muscles he wasn't sure even existed, and he knows it's only going to feel ten times worse in the morning when they've had all night to tighten up on him. He cuts across the grass of the open green outside of the library instead of worming his way through the hordes of students maneuvering the sidewalks. His bike is parked in the motorcycle lot behind the huge stone and brick building because it's almost exactly the center point of campus, and there's a bus stop right there that all of the lines stop at.

Almost entirely on a whim, he decides to duck into the lobby contemplating one of those horribly fattening but disgustingly delicious frappe things. The lobby is fucking dead because it's a Friday and no one in their right mind is spending Friday night at the library.

When Brad walks up to the stand, the barista is bent over with his head resting on his hand. The other hand is twirling an obnoxious orange highlighter between his fingers, which comes down every now and then to swipe a line across the page of whatever book is in front of him. The name tag attached to a lanyard around his neck tells Brad his name is Ray in crooked, spiky writing. "So do you actually do any work or do you just read picture books the entire time?" he asks, by way of greeting.

Ray's head comes up and he looks Brad over. "Dude, you smell like ass," he says.

Brad hikes an eyebrow. "Do you smell ass often?"

"Only when your mom's in town." Ray flashes him a toothy grin.

Brad's mouth twitches a little. "Nicely played."

Ray just grins again and punches his numbers into the register without looking. "What can I get for you?"

He takes a second to look over the sizes of the cups and then points at the biggest one. "A really big latte."

Ray picks one of the cups up off the stack, snorting a laugh. "You mean a venti?"

Brad rolls his eyes and pulls his wallet out of the front pocket of his backpack. "No, I mean a really big latte. This isn't Starbucks." He looks up when Ray clears his throat and discovers he's pointing at a tiny easel board that declares, "We proudly brew Starbucks coffee," complete with the green mermaid logo. "Oh, for fuck's sake." He slaps the five dollar bill he digs out of his wallet onto the counter and then slides around to the corner where the drinks are handed out.

The latte is slid over after a couple of minutes and then Ray is waving a dollar bill in his face. "You forgot your dollar."

"You can keep it," Brad tells him, picking up his latte and slipping it into one of the cardboard holders.

"A tip just for me?" Ray bats his eyes. "Next time you should try tucking it in my g-string."

Brad takes a sip of his drink. "That must be uncomfortable."

"I imagine it probably would be, but I have the distinct advantage of not wearing any underwear."

"I guess that makes two of us."

Ray grins. "Free ballin' during soccer practice. That's brave, Colbert."

Brad guesses that he shouldn't be surprised that Ray knows his name. The soccer team gets a lot of hype in the school paper, and Brad's one of the better players, but it's a little startling anyway. "What can I say, I like to live life on the edge," he says. "And it's Brad."

"Totally charmed," Ray responds, deadpan.

Brad snorts a laugh. "Thanks, but I should go."

"Uh, yeah, you should go home and  _shower_  before you kill someone. Jesus." Ray makes a face and takes an exaggerated step back.

Brad lifts his latte in a goodbye. He finally lets himself grin once his back is to Ray and he's on his way out the door.

  


* * *

  


It takes a week or two, but Brad figures out that Ray works on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, but not Tuesdays and Thursdays. Tuesdays and Thursdays, he's learned, go to Rudy, who turned out to be much friendlier than Brad originally thought he'd be. It just so happens that he has a three-hour block of free-time between classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays that he uses as a study period. Normally he finds a secluded table inside the library, but now he's taken to ordering a latte and sitting at one of the tables near the coffee stand.

For three solid weeks after that, Brad tells himself he keeps up this routine because the coffee is delicious. He gets to a point where he’s repeating it so often in his head that it’s become a sort of mantra, and he almost believes it. Or at least he kind of does until he walks up to the small stand and spies Ray in the closet that’s usually always locked, holding a box.

Ray is up on his tiptoes, shoving the box onto one of the shelves well above his head. The threadbare long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing is fitted and at least two inches shy of meeting the top of his jeans, since he’s all stretched out like that. It takes some obvious finagling but he manages to slide the box up there, wiping his hands off on the half-apron tied low around his hips.

Brad's feelings certainly aren't hurt by the fact that there isn't really an enforced uniform that Ray has to wear because that means he gets to stare at Ray's ass in those hipster skinny jeans he seems to like. And, okay, so maybe Brad has a little bit of a crush on the barista, but whatever. He's not going to complain about having nice eye candy to look at while he gets his work done.

The box Ray is writing on with a Sharpie is clearly marked as 20 ounce cups. The damn thing is nearly half as tall as Ray is, and despite the fact that Brad knows it’s full of Styrofoam, he can’t help but think it must be heavy. “Do you need any help?” he asks. He wants to slap his hand over his mouth in mortification the second the words move past his lips, but he somehow manages to refrain.

Ray shoots him a look that clearly says he thinks Brad was dropped on his head as a child. “No thanks, homes. I think I’m good.”

Brad keeps quiet and watches as Ray finishes loading the giant boxes onto the storage shelves. He offers a small smile when Ray comes up to the register, and gets a smile in return. "A really big latte," he says.

Ray rolls his eyes. "Okay, a  _venti_  it is."

Brad leaves his standard five dollars on the counter and slides around to wait for his drink. He watches Ray work the espresso machine with an ease that comes with familiarity. He's learned that Ray is rarely not talkative, but occasionally, every so often, there's a day where he seems to zone out and works on auto-pilot. This turns out to be one of those days, and Brad tries to think of something to say that might make Ray laugh. Nothing comes to mind immediately, so eventually he just asks, "Are you okay?"

His drink is slid across the counter and Ray wipes his hands with the corner of his apron. "Yeah, man, I'm fine."

Brad decides not to press for a real answer and grabs a sleeve for his drink. He just nods and moves the handful of feet over to the table right next to the espresso bar that is turning into his regular spot. He unloads his school things and starts working on the study guide for one of his classes. The one benefit, he supposes, to days like this is that he gets a lot more of his work done than the days he spends the three hours mostly talking to Ray. His latte is long-finished, and he's two-thirds of the way through his work when he gets distracted by a second cup that gets set on the table near his elbow.

"Thought you could use another one," Ray tells him. "You look like you're working on some serious shit." There's a hint of amusement there, accompanied by a small smile.

Brad isn't sure if the coffee is more distracting, or if it's the way Ray has his thumb hooked over the top of his jeans. "Thanks." He starts to reach into the front pocket of his jeans for his wallet, but Ray shakes his head.

"Don't worry about it, homes. It's on me."

There's this warm little feeling that settles in the pit of his stomach that he's pretty sure has nothing to do with the hot latte, and Brad smiles.

  


* * *

  


One day when Brad walks in, there's a group of people sitting at his usual table. Brad waits in line and strains his ears to try to listen in on their conversation. He's dismayed when he realizes they probably won't be going anywhere any time soon. Brad doesn't actually  _have_  to tell Ray his order - Ray just rings it up and makes it. When Brad holds his hand out for the change of the ten he'd handed over, he presses his fingers up to brush lightly against the underside of Ray's wrist.

Ray doesn't seem to react to it. He just offers Brad a small smile and picks up the damp rag he'd been using to wipe down the counter.

Brad returns the smile and raises his latte a little in thanks. He heads over to an empty table across the lobby and takes a seat. If he happens to be sitting at the table in the one seat that allows him to watch Ray, then that's most definitely a coincidence. He pulls out his assignments and a pen, and settles in to get some work done. He finds himself looking over at the coffee stand every few minutes, watching Ray - watching him clean, watching him operate the espresso machine, watching him interact with other customers.

Brad knows he's really fucked when he realizes he's more distracted when Ray's  _not_  hovering around his table.

It's the following week when Brad walks into the lobby that he begins to think that maybe the feelings he has for Ray aren't as one-sided as he originally thought. Half of the table right next to the coffee stand is covered in boxes full of product - coffee beans, cups, the retail mugs. The other half of the table is mostly empty, the lone exception being Brad's piping hot latte sitting in front of his usual seat. He wonders if thinking that maybe Ray put the product there on purpose, so that no one other than Brad could sit there, is getting a little desperate. Brad shrugs his backpack off his shoulders and grabs one of the straps, moving closer to the table. He can't see Ray but he can hear him singing some horrible pop song off-key. When Brad pushes the chair back it makes a horrid scraping noise against the floor, and Ray's head pops up from somewhere beneath the counter.

Ray grins brilliantly when he spots him. "'sup, homes?"

"Hi," Brad offers, pulling one of the other chairs closer. He dumps his bag on it and digs through it until he can snag the appropriate spiral notebook. He pulls it out and unclips the pen from the wire binding, flipping it open to a page where there's only an assignment written. Brad stares at his own writing for a minute or two, before he decides that watching Ray and listening to him sing is a decidedly more entertaining venture. He takes a careful sip of his latte and almost groans. It's heaven in a fucking cup, and he's pretty sure there's an extra shot of espresso in there. "How's business?"

Ray makes a face, hip leaned against the half-wall where the little door into the booth is hanging open. "Fucking slow as shit, man. I think I've added twenty-five years standing here."

"You've aged well," Brad tells him. How he manages to keep a straight face, he has no fucking idea. "Shouldn't you be unloading boxes if you're so slow?" he asks with a little bit of a drawl, inclining his head toward the cardboard jungle taking up the other half of his table.

"Fuck you, Colbert." Ray picks up a few bags of coffee, and Brad admires the tattoos on his forearms that are usually hidden by his long-sleeved shirts. His sleeves are pushed up around his elbows today. "The shipment just got here," he says, then adds a slightly bitter, "Three hours late."

Brad just hums and leans over to look at the clipboard sitting in the middle of the table. He can tell without even reading any of the words on the page that it's the order sheet - there are little check marks next to some of the lines, probably for product Ray's already unloaded. "Your manager doesn't do this?"

"Schwetje? Lift a fucking finger? That's hilarious, Brad."

"Can't you complain to corporate, or something?"

Ray gives him a look. "Man, you've got a lot of good ones today. Maybe you should consider changing your major."

"Maybe," Brad replies.

Ray disappears for a moment or two while he puts away some more of the product from one of the boxes. "What  _is_  your major, anyway?" he asks when he comes back, one hand coming to rest on the back of the chair Brad's bag is sitting on, the other settled on his hip.

Brad tries not to stare at the ink sprawled across Ray's forearms, tries not to wonder where  _else_  Ray is tattooed. "Technically it's Computer Sciences, but I haven't really decided yet. I'm just doing all of the liberal arts requirements until I figure out exactly what I want to do."

"Uh, aren't you sort of running out of time for that?" Ray asks, glancing briefly over his shoulder to make sure there isn't anyone waiting in line.

"Sort of," Brad concedes. He props his chin on his hand and tilts his head, looking up at Ray. "I suppose you have your life all mapped out then?"

Ray shrugs his shoulders, his expression sliding into something that's almost a touch shy. "Sort of," he parrots. "I'm a Philosophy major. I haven't decided  _exactly_  what I'm going to do, but at least I have a general idea. That's a hell of a lot more than you can say." He makes a gesture for Brad to keep talking as he slides back behind the counter to wait on a customer.

"Maybe." Brad leans back in his chair with his feet flat on the floor, enough to lift the front to legs off the ground. "To be perfectly honest, college wasn't ever really on my radar," he says. He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug when Ray shoots him a quizzical look over the espresso maker. "I was going to join the Marines."

"Seriously?" Ray asks. He slips the venti, soy milk, no whip, skinny whatever-the-fuck into a cardboard sleeve and hands it over to the busty blonde who's chattering away on her phone at high volumes. "What changed your mind?"

Brad's quiet for a minute or two, and watches Ray round the bar again, coming back over to the table. "I got offered a couple of soccer scholarships," he replies honestly. "My mom went kind of postal on me when I told her I wasn't going to take either of them up on it."

"Understandable. I'd have fucking killed for a scholarship like that, homes," Ray tells him. "Besides, the Marines will still be there when you're done. It's not like that option disappears once you turn your tassel. Hell, they'll probably come all over themselves trying to get you once you've got a degree tucked under your belt."

Brad shoots him an amused look. "That's what my mom told me." He finally just closes his book and puts it away, since he's clearly not going to bother getting any of his work done right now. "You aren't on scholarship?"

"I have a couple of little ones, but not a full-fucking-ride. I have student loans out the ass, and I work forty hours a week serving shitty coffee to assholes like you to help pay the bills." Ray is grinning as he says it, but Brad hears the bitter undertone that's floating under the bravado.

Brad digests the information quietly for a minute or two. "So you work  _and_  go to school full-time?" he asks eventually.

"Well, yeah."

"When do you have time to yourself?" Brad asks.

Ray shrugs his shoulders. "Saturday nights, usually, after I get off work. I spend most of the day on Sundays trying to get whatever schoolwork I didn't finish during the week done."

Brad knows his stare is starting to turn incredulous, but he's not sure he could stop it if he wanted to. "Do you ever sleep?"

Ray grins a little and rubs the side of his face. "Occasionally." He makes a vague gesture over his shoulder. "Getting discounted shots of espresso certainly has its advantages." When Brad just continues to stare at him, he shrugs his shoulders again. "I don't really have  _time_  to sleep, man."

"Do you ever go out?" Brad wants to know. He's seriously beginning to wonder how the fuck Ray isn't completely stark-raving mad, if all he's ever doing is either school or work-related.

"Not really," he replies. "Like I said, I don't really have a lot of free time. I go out every now and then, but usually I just spend the night in watching shitty TV and eating leftover take-out."

"You need to make some more time for yourself, you know. Maybe go out a little more," Brad tells him, not unkindly.

Ray huffs a breath. "Yeah, that's what my ex said. My being too involved in school and work and not having enough time to party is basically the reason why we broke up." He retreats behind the counter, and Brad knows a defensive position when he sees one.

Brad can tell this conversation is drifting into dangerous territory, so he backtracks as quickly as possible. "Did you see the score of the Chargers game this past weekend?" As subject changes go, it's certainly not the most subtle one he's ever come up with, but the relief rolling off of Ray is palpable.

"Man, the reffing in that game was some seriously retarded bullshit." Ray starts to go into graphic detail about what should be done with the referees' whistles and penalty flags, and Brad can't help but smile the tiniest bit.

  


* * *

  


He's not entirely sure when he starts to catalog which of the regular customers Ray seems to have taken a liking to. There's one in particular that really rubs Brad the wrong way, though he can't exactly pinpoint why. Brad has noticed him more and more and has started to pay close attention to the way Ray interacts with him. It's totally different than the way he acts with Brad or any of the other customers.

The guy is tall - taller than Ray, though not as tall as Brad - and he's fit. He's all care-free smiles and light touches to Ray's arms and shoulders.

Brad isn't sure what bothers him more; that the guy does it, or that Ray doesn't seem to mind. What Brad finds really interesting is that this guy hadn't been around until the last couple of weeks, and now he's starting to show up with more frequency. He wonders about it, but he doesn't feel comfortable asking Ray who the fuck he is.

It turns into a sort of game. Trying to figure out who he is without asking. Every time he sees him, Brad pays less and less attention to his schoolwork. He pretends to be absorbed in his reading, but is really straining to overhear any and all of the conversations between Ray and his mysterious friend.

He also notices that the blond has started to pay more attention to him. He notices the furtive glances and the hushed whispers, and Brad feels a sort of triumph the first time Ray gets obviously irritated with this guy.

"Is that him?" Brad hears the blond ask, but he doesn't hear Ray's reply over the noise of the espresso machine. He has a pretty good idea of what it might entail, though, considering the dark expression on Ray's face. He turns his gaze back down to his notebook and pretends to be doing his work when one of the other chairs gets pulled out, earning his attention.

The blond flashes a friendly grin, and the fact that Ray is watching them closely is not lost on Brad. "Everything else is full. Mind if I sit with you?" he asks, making a gesture over his shoulder.

Brad tilts his head to look past him, deliberately staring at the three empty tables he can see clearly from his seat. When he looks back up, the blond's smile just widens. "Sure," he says finally. He shifts his book to the side to make room.

"Thanks." His guest sits down, but he doesn't pull out any paper or books or anything, and when Brad looks up again, he's still watching him. "I'm Walt Hasser."

Brad blinks slowly. "I'm - "

"Brad," Walt supplies for him. His gaze flicks pointedly over toward Ray, the corner of his mouth tipped up in a little smirk. "I know."

Ray, when Brad glances at him, is staring at Walt like maybe if he does it long enough, Walt will burst into flames. He starts making a drink of some kind and then rounds the corner of the espresso bar, bringing it over to their table.

Walt takes a careful sip of his coffee after Ray hands it to him. His mouth twitches a little and he turns his gaze on the other man. "This doesn't taste right," he says, setting the cup down on the table.

Ray's smile is as artificially sweet as the sugar Brad just watched Walt dump in the cup. "Exactly what are you trying to say, Hasser?"

Walt looks from his cup, to Ray, and then back down at his cup. He doesn't respond, but his lips press together in a thin line, and he nudges the coffee another six inches or so away from him with the back of his hand.

Brad props his chin on the heel of his hand and hides his smile behind his fingers. "I think what he's  _trying_  to say is that it tastes like shit, Ray."

"I'm deeply fucking wounded, Hasser," Ray says.

"Oh shut the hell up, you fucking messed-up hick." Walt doesn't even try to stop the punch that Ray lands to his shoulder, and he watches as Ray retreats back behind the counter to serve some of the customers that have stepped into line. His gaze turns to Brad a moment later. "So, Brad, I've heard a lot about you recently."

Brad arches an eyebrow. "Well, they did run that full-page article in the school paper," he replies easily. But the thought that maybe Ray's been talking about him makes his stomach turn over pleasantly.

Walt just offers a small smile. "You know that's not what I meant."

Brad stays silent and stares evenly back at Walt until Walt's gaze shifts over to Ray as he comes back over to the table. He glances at Ray and notices the way Ray's gaze flicks back and forth between them, clearly apprehensive. "So," Brad starts, earning both of their attention. "How do you guys know each other?" He figures the only way he's going to get a real answer is to stop beating around the bush and just ask.

Walt flashes a lop-sided smile at him. "We used to date," he replies.

That particular piece of information does all kinds of crazy things to Brad's insides. On the one hand, it's great news because that means he might actually have a fucking shot at this. On the other, it makes his chest sort of tighten, and he suddenly doesn't like Walt all that much. But he smiles anyway. "Obviously it wasn't a total disaster, since you're still friends."

"It was a mutual decision," Ray puts in, though Brad gets the distinct impression that he doesn't really want to be having this conversation. "We had a different set of priorities, and deciding to just be friends was for the best."

Walt flashes a smile at Ray, and Brad can't help but want to punch him in the face a little bit, regardless of how irrational that is.

There's a moment of uncomfortable silence before Brad clears his throat and says, "I should get going." He shuts his textbook and his spiral and loads them back into his backpack, zipping it up. He drains the last of his latte and then chucks it into the nearby trashcan. Brad glances once at Walt before he turns his attention totally to Ray, who's leaning against the counter. "We're having a party on Saturday at the Villages. You're more than welcome to come by."

There's a pause where Brad's not sure if Ray is startled by the invitation or what, but eventually Ray nods. "Okay, thanks."

Brad flashes him a small smile and starts backpedaling toward the door. "So I'll see you?"

Ray laughs a little and just shrugs his shoulders. "Maybe."

Brad thinks that's certainly better than a flat-out 'no,' and he puts that one down in the win column.

  


* * *

  


They're technically not supposed to party while the soccer season is in full swing, but what their coach doesn't know won't hurt him. Ferrando's not asking, and they're not telling. None of them are stupid enough to host a party at the apartment they share, but Poke certainly isn't above conning their other friends into hosting them. This time he managed to get the guys who live across the courtyard to host it under the condition that they provide at least one of the kegs. Poke, of course, was mysteriously missing when it came time to throw down the money for it.

By the time Brad and Nate manage to get the keg and make it back to the complex, the party is already in full swing. Brad isn't surprised at the eclectic mix of people in attendance, but what  _does_  surprise him is when he spots Ray across the living room once they're finished setting the keg up in the tub. He feels an anxious little twist in his gut at the idea that Ray came to the party because he asked him to.

The feeling lessens a little when he realizes that Ray is standing there with Rudy and Walt, and he thinks the only reason he must be here is because he was bodily dragged for his own good. Rudy's talking animatedly with Pappy, who's seated on one of the bar stools by the breakfast bar, his crutches leaning up against the counter next to him. Of the four of them, Ray is the only one amongst their small group who isn't holding a red plastic cup.

Brad collects an extra cup of beer and slowly makes his way over. He greets them with a crooked smile and shoves one of the cups he's holding into Ray's hand despite his mild protest. "You drinkin' tonight, Pappy?" he asks.

"Nah." Pappy tips the red cup he's holding the slightest bit, showing Brad the contents. "Just water. I'm still on painkillers."

"What happened?" Walt asks, taking a sip of his drink. Based on the color, it's some sort of mixed fruit punch concoction.

Pappy shrugs. "I tore a ligament in my foot during the game earlier this week."

Brad watches Ray as Pappy delves into the whole story surrounding the injury when Rudy prods him into it.

Ray is looking somewhere past Rudy's shoulder, watching what's going on in the rest of the living room. He doesn't seem to be paying one bit of attention to anything that's being said within their small group. He doesn't even take a sip of the drink he's holding until his eyes catch Brad's, and Brad arches an expectant eyebrow at him.

Brad thinks he must be wrong, must be seeing things, but he thinks that Ray actually  _blushes_  a little. He's opening his mouth to say something about it when a hand finds his shoulder, and Garza's pulling him away with the excuse that they need another player over at the beer pong table. By the time Brad escapes the game against Nate and Poke, he's got a few more beers under his belt, but Ray is nowhere to be found. He does four full circuits of the party before he realizes he's going around in circles like some kind of fucked up NASCAR race. Disappointment settles heavily in his stomach, quickly smothering his earlier excitement.

Christeson and Stafford insert themselves directly in his path, and shove a shot of  _something_  into his hand.

Brad knows better than to think they're going to let him get away without taking it, so instead of trying to argue, he just throws it back. It burns the whole way down, but they grin and cheer and take off to find their next unsuspecting victim. He sets the empty shot glass on the end table as he passes by the couch. He looks around at the party, which is going strong. He feels hopelessly restless now, the feeling making his skin itch like he's just walked through poison ivy. Watching everyone else laugh and flirt and drink just makes it worse somehow.

It's warm outside and still uncomfortably muggy, even though the sun is long gone.

Brad's got more than a few beers and a couple of shots coursing through his body as he starts to amble away from the apartment. He's halfway across the courtyard, headed back toward the apartment he shares with Poke and Nate when he realizes the gate to the pool is open, and someone is sitting there. As he passes through the gate, his brain registers the fact that he recognizes who it is, and he thinks his stomach must have broken out a trampoline because suddenly it feels like it's in his throat. "Ray."

Ray doesn't flinch, but there's definitely surprise in his eyes when he turns them onto Brad. "Oh, hey," he says, casual. He's seated on the edge of the pool, his jeans rolled up to his knees, feet dangling in the water. His socks and shoes are in a haphazard pile on the ground next to him.

Brad moves forward slowly, painfully aware of his every movement. "What are you doing out here?" he asks, proud of the way he sounds even and in control even though he can feel it slipping, fast. His flip flops join Ray's shoes and he takes a seat on the edge of the pool next to Ray. Every hair stands on end, and his stomach churns pleasantly at the way Ray watches him.

"Are you wearing  _plaid_?" Ray asks incredulously, instead of answering.

Brad picks at the bottom hem of the shorts he's wearing. He contemplates coming up with some kind of biting response, but in the end he just shrugs and says, "Yeah."

"Seriously, Brad?" There's a spark of amusement in those dark eyes. Dark like espresso, and Brad sort of wants to shoot himself in the face for even thinking it, and it's almost like Ray  _hears_  the thought because he snorts a laugh and shakes his head. "I don't even know what to say."

"What do you have against plaid?" Brad asks, settling his hands on the tiled edge of the pool. He's ridiculously aware of how close his right hand is to Ray's left, can feel the heat coming off of him in waves.

Ray shakes his head again, smirking. "I'm not sure what's more disturbing, dude - that you're fucking wearing it, or that you're actually making it work."

Brad chuckles and watches the ripples that form across the water every time Ray moves his feet, enjoying the comfortable silence. He glances at Ray again and is surprised to find Ray openly watching him. He's even more surprised when Ray's gaze doesn't immediately flick away, like he would've expected. Brad swallows and feels heat blossom in the pit of his stomach when Ray's gaze drops to follow the movement of his throat. "Ray."

Ray clears his throat a little, raises an eyebrow. "What?"

Brad licks his lips, watches again as Ray's gaze flicks down to his mouth. He doesn't say anything else because he doesn't need to. Ray just gave him the answer to any question he could possibly want to ask with just a simple look. One of his hands comes up off the warm tile to snake around the back of Ray's neck, and Brad pulls him in close, covering Ray's mouth with his own. He kisses him, soft, and wet, and open, and feels warmth spread from where their lips are connected all the way down to his fucking toes. He thinks the alcohol humming in his blood probably helps with that, but he hasn't had so much to drink that he won't remember every detail of this in the morning.

The way Ray's tongue comes out after the kiss has ended to swipe across his own lips, moist and flushed a darker pink than usual. The way those dark eyes flutter open a moment later, the reflected glow of the pool mixed with a thousand different emotions, desire the most dominant. The way one corner of his mouth twitches up when Brad rubs his thumb against the skin behind Ray's ear.

Silence stretches on for a couple of long minutes as they simply stare at each other. It's Brad who finally breaks it, saying softly, "You taste like coffee."

Ray laughs softly, surprise mingled with amusement. "Imagine that," he deadpans. "You taste like cheap liquor and even shittier beer."

There's a tone to Ray's voice that makes Brad's skin crawl, and he rubs his thumb into the skin behind Ray's ear a little harder. "I'm not drunk," he says.

Ray snorts a little laugh and says, "Okay," but his gaze flicks away, toward the pool. He resists when Brad tries to pull him closer. "Shouldn't you be getting back to the party?"

Brad's hand slowly falls away, even as he still searches Ray's expression for some kind of clue as to what he could possibly say to make Ray believe him. "Ray, I - " He's cut off when one of the party-goers decides that right now would be a good time to do a cannonball into the pool, fully clothed.

Ray uses the distraction to get up and collect his shoes and socks. "I should go," he says quietly. "I have to get up early. I've got a lot of work I have to get done tomorrow."

"Ray," Brad begins, trying to climb hastily to his feet. He gets stopped by Garza and a couple of other people by the gate of the pool, and so he just watches helplessly as Ray picks his way through the people spilling out of the apartment, heading for the parking lot.

  


* * *

  


Brad doesn't like the expression on Rudy's face when he walks into the library lobby the following Monday. He sees a lot of apprehension, and a little bit of disdain. He doesn't even have to ask the question that's sitting at the tip of his tongue, because Rudy starts talking before he's even all the way up to the counter.

"Ray called off," is all Rudy tells him. He doesn't say why, doesn't offer any sort of explanation.

Brad doesn't need one. He knows it's probably because of him, because of the kiss that he's sure Ray thinks he doesn't remember.

"Do you want your usual?" Rudy asks.

"No." Brad shakes his head. "But I'd like to have Ray's phone number."

Rudy heaves a drawn-out sigh and settles his hands on the edge of the counter, looking like he's bracing for a fight. "Just let him be, Brad." Rudy's tone is firm. "I think you've fucked with him enough."

"I'm not trying to fuck with him," Brad says, rubbing a hand over his hair. "Please, Rudy. I just need to talk to him." He's prepared to stand there for as long as he needs to, the people in line behind him be damned. A hand firmly grabbing his elbow distracts him from the unflinching, cold look Rudy's giving him.

Walt just sort of shakes his head and starts to pull Brad away, and Brad's not even sure where Walt came from. "Hey, c'mon."

Brad glances back at Rudy briefly, but follows Walt until they come to a stop off to the side, away from the flow of people. He frowns deeply at the way Walt's looking at him, an odd mixture of faint amusement and something more serious. "What?"

Walt sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a black ball-point pen. He grabs Brad's hand and turns it palm up, starting to write. "Don't make me regret giving this to you, Brad." When Walt caps the pen, and Brad looks down at his hand, there's a 10-digit phone number staring up at him.

There's a very irrational part of him that's irked by the fact that Walt obviously knows Ray's number by heart. The rational part speaks up and tells him that's silly - Walt and Ray dated, of course Walt knows his phone number. He squashes down all of those thoughts and the urge to hug the blond and settles on a sincere, "Thank you." He turns for the doors and digs his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans before he's even all the way through them. He reads the numbers off his hand and punches them into his phone. There's no hesitation when he hits the green dial button and puts it up to his ear.

Ray answers between the third and fourth rings. He sounds apprehensive. "Hello?"

Brad feels his stomach flip a little. "Ray, it's Brad," he says, though all that's running through his head as the words come tumbling out is a repeated litany of  _please, don't hang up_. There's a really long pause where ordinarily, Brad would think Ray had done exactly that, except he didn't hear the telltale click of the line going dead.

There's a short little sigh before Ray speaks. "What do you want, Brad?"

 _Another kiss. A date. You._  The last thought seems to echo, and Brad holds his breath when he realizes the word slipped past his lips. The silence stretches on for so long that Brad has to let air back into his lungs, or risk passing out.

"I'm not going to be your bi-curious little experiment, Brad."

Brad licks his lips and closes his eyes. "You wouldn't be."

Ray snorts. "No?"

"No." Brad doesn't even care that they're having this conversation while he's standing on the front steps of the library, where anyone walking by can hear him. "Why do you think I've been coming in to get coffee three times a week for the last three months? The coffee's not that good, Ray."

Ray snorts again, but this time it's a laugh, and the silence that follows doesn't seem as uncomfortable. "What do you want?" Ray asks again.

"I know a good Thai restaurant. Are you free tomorrow night?"

"Are you asking me out on a date?"

Brad feels his mouth twitch into a smile. "Finally getting with the program, are we?"

"Fuck you, dude." But there's a grin in Ray's tone, and the clenched up feeling in Brad's chest starts to dissipate. "I get out of class at six-thirty. Room 324, Carroway."

"I'll see you then," Brad says firmly. When he hangs up, he's grinning from ear to ear.


End file.
